I know I will never write that great Russian novel.
I cannot find my inner Tolstoy nor Dostoevsky.
I know I will probably never write a novel.
I’m too busy seeing the tree from the woods.
Even short stories may be beyond me.
A clutch of ten does not a short story writer make.
The most I will ever write is a poem.
I send them off.
The postman comes but not for me.
Epigrams. I’m good at epigrams.
Oscar Wilde wrote a few. So did Groucho Marx.
But they were already famous.
I don’t really want to write a poem about not blowing my own trumpet but it seems that’s what I’m doing.